


Moxie

by thedemonsurfer



Category: IDW, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, dumb fluff, passive-aggresive sibling inspired affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedemonsurfer/pseuds/thedemonsurfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fulcrum wants to read. Misfire wants to be a pest. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moxie

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dumb one-shot partially based on an interaction between my sister and I, and was mostly an attempt to write something with affection in it for once. It... didn't go as planned. I blame Misfire. 
> 
> It was also supposed to be written for Valentines day, so you can see how well I met that deadline.

“You're squishing me.” 

There was a shrug, and Fulcrum twisted his helm around to try and glare at the larger and much heavier jet currently laying on top of him. It wasn't like the mech's weight actually hurt, most of it being distributed across his altmode kibble, but it was still uncomfortable. The K-classer squirmed.

“No seriously, Misfire. You're squishing me. Get off.” 

“But pinhead, I'm _bored_.” 

Fulcrum huffed. Misfire's emphasis made it sound as though being bored was the greatest travesty in all the galaxy, when really the only travesty was when the jet decided to find entertainment with the poor unfortunate mechs trapped on a ship with him. The smaller 'con squirmed again, trying to get at least partially out from under his oppressor. “And I'm trying to read.” He gestured with his borrowed datapad. “Why don't you go be bored on someone else? Like Crankcase.” 

“Pssh. I'm bored, not suicidal.” Misfire stretched, pillowing his helm on his arms and apparently getting comfortable on his new nest. Said nest immediately tried to dislodge the parasite, with predictable results. He just didn't have the physical strength to throw the mech off, and they both knew it. 

“Grimlock, then. Or one of the engines. How about the ship's hull?” The K-class flinched and tried to shoo off the fingers tapping on his helm, finally smacking them away with the datapad.

“Grimlock would make a nest out of _me_ , the last time I climbed on top of the engines I nearly lost a wing and Krok promised to take the other one if I ever did it again, and _this_ wouldn't be nearly as fun directed at the ship.” 

Whatever Fulcrum had expected ' _this_ ' to be, feeling Misfire's glossa on the back of his helm was certainly _not it_. The K-classer let out a sound that in no way could be considered mechly, flailing in surprise and nearly hitting Misfire with the datapad again. The other 'con laughed, and only laughed harder as his captive attempted a more focused strike. 

“You licked me.” What was supposed to be an indignant hiss came out more like hysterical disbelief, and Misfire let out another chuckle. 

“Mmyep.” 

“ _Why_.”

The jet's fingers were back on Fulcrum's helm, picking at and rubbing over the Decepticon symbols on the sides. “Felt like it. You know, you don't taste anything like what I thought you would. Thought there'd be more rust and, you know, _moxie_. You have a distinct lack of moxie.”

“So you're a medic now.” The K-classer shook his helm, partially in exasperation, partially to dislodge the hands, and returned his attention to his datapad. He was determine to ignore the jet as much as possible now, and hopefully Misfire would become even more bored and leave the former technician alone. And then Fulcrum would never read while laying on his front again, at least, not with the door unlocked. 

“Frag no. I'm _better_ than a medic. I'm a bartender.” Before the K-classer could comment on the ridiculousness of that statement he froze, the jet's ventilations brushing over his audio and sending a shudder through his frame. Misfire either didn't notice or didn't care, leaning forward and practically nuzzling against his comrade's helm. “You're warm. Did you know that?” 

“What are you...” Fulcrum turned his helm, trying to get a better look at the jet's expression. 

And got a wet glossa to the cheek. 

“Frag it- _Misfire!_ ”

The jet practically cackled, nearly rolling off of Fulcrum's back in his mirth. “Twice! I can't believe you let me do that _twice_!” 

Fulcrum seethed. It was a silent seethe, more like a sulk than anything really threatening, but it was a seethe nonetheless, and the K-classer practically buried his face back into his reading material. He wasn't going to give the jet the satisfaction of a reaction. He wasn't going to pay attention to the hands on his Decepticon insignias. He wasn't going to pay attention to an olfactory sensor being nuzzled against his helm. And he certainly wasn't going to pay attention to the arms wrapping around his neck, in what could almost be considered a hug if it wasn't just Decepticons in the room. Then again, considering it was _Misfire_ , there was a good chance that it really was a 'hug' and not a stealthy attempt to snap his neck. 

No, not paying attention at all. 

“I don't like the taste of moxie, anyway.”


End file.
